A Left Handed Potter? Sinister
by Eagling
Summary: A parody of almost everything in the Potter Universe, particularly the information known prior to Half Blood Prince. Random, sarcastic, and hopefully amusing. Eventually, Sirius and Draco decide that the lefty Harry should really be evil... hence the Plan
1. Prelude 1: Brewing for Many Years

Author's Note:

After reading Goblet of Fire, most of us should be used to first chapters that are almost completely unrelated. So, this chapter is strictly for entertainment, hence the "Prelude" in front of it's name. Ingenious, huh? By the way, this story has three random preludes before the plot actually starts. But fear not - it will stay random.

Also, this was written in response to the comments prior to the release of HBP that the opening chapter had been "brewing for many years." Let's just say I kind of misinterpreted that.

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Prelude 1: Brewing For Many Years

It was, amazingly, a city. With roaring cars and smoggy skies, covered with clouds that blocked the sun until only the faintest glow shone through. It was enough, however, to illuminate the enormous mansions below that stretched as far as the eye could see. This city was none other than Edinburgh, Scotland, and it was perfectly normal, thank-you-very-much. Most of the citizens of this picturesque neighborhood were grateful for the seeming normality. All, that is, except one.

This person was not normal in any way. Well, besides the obvious.

But moving away from basic human anatomy, this person was unique in that she did not look forward to getting mail from admirers, had created a main character that was annoyingly idiotic, sold millions of books, and, oh yeah, was probably the richest woman in the world. But all of these seemingly huge differences paled in comparison to the one thing that separated her from the rest of humanity. She got free coffee in the morning. In fact, she didn't only get free coffee in the morning, she got it around the clock, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year.

At the moment, surprisingly, she was not drinking coffee, although she would certainly have enjoyed a cup or two. Sadly, much to her bewildered dismay, the coffee machine happened to have broken after around forty thousand cups, all of which had been consumed in the past ten hours. For the esteemed author-who-must-not-be-named-because -of-website-policies was answering fan-mail, and a more stressful activity had never been invented.

In fact, fifty years ago to the day, a man named Frankly Useless had been brought into a police station for the very mention of fan mail. It was still a popular topic of discussion when items of gossip were scarce in Little Elephant, for what happened on that fateful day was etched into the mind of everyone who had ever passed through.

The town had woken up as one, gazed out their windows as one, and, as one, seen the words "FAN MAIL" written in large green letters on a nearby hill. Immediately, police were called to the scene, for the words "FAN MAIL" do not paint themselves onto a hillside. The scenic route through the hills had never been more crowded as every member in the town rushed to their car to drive past what would become a historical site. Soon, however, the mass outpouring was halted as the area was cordoned off for inspection by the most well-trained medical professionals available.

Meanwhile, in a little cottage at the base of a hill, Frankly Useless awoke to the sound of an officer rapping on his door.

"I am here to arrest you!" proclaimed the policeman dramatically.

"Is that legal?" said Frankly suspiciously.

"I will _make_ it legal."

So, Frankly Useless was escorted to the police station in Upper Elephant. On the way, however, he was able to convince the officer to stop by Toys 'R' Us and pick up a stuffed teddy bear. Immediately, Frankly felt braver. It was always that way in World of Warcraft. He might be scared out of his wits during the fighting, but when he sat on his bed and hugged Teddy, he felt like he could take on whatever virtual reality threw at him.

Back in the town, Dat was telling everybody in the bar that Frankly had been arrested.

"Frankly? Surely not! Why, I knew him when he was a boy. He would never climb a hill and write FAN MAIL on it!" exclaimed the barman in astonishment. There was a great rush to buy Dat drinks. This proved to be a waste of money, since Dat ended up becoming drunk and puking all over the floor. Still, the discussion went on.

"Frankly would never do something like that."

"Oh yeah? And who else has access to green paint? You know he's been dying to paint that door of his for years."

"But still, Frankly is a good man."

"Yes, I know he is, but would you like to volunteer to go to the police station and take his place? Someone has to go to prison, and better Frankly than me, I say."

"Well, when you put it that way..."

Needless to say, the entire bar was convinced that Frankly was indeed guilty by noon. Convenient, too, since the conversation had started at 11:55 am.

In the police station, Frankly was stubbornly repeating that he had no idea who painted the letters, as it most certainly wasn't him. He did, however, recall seeing a tall, black-haired, pale youth with a long stick in his hand walking in that area, but since the police was too scared to arrest the beloved actor of the most famous fiction character in the world who also must not be named, they dismissed this as ludicrous. Frankly's argument wasn't helped by the fact that he insisted on animatedly conversing every point with his fluffy bear and squeaking out its reply before making a statement to the police.

Despite his questionable mental health, Frankly seemed to be almost out of trouble, until the medical report came in. The report started on a positive note, as it appeared that the paint was non-toxic and posed no threat to the environment. They could, in fact, find no reason why any sane person would bother walking all the way up the hill to laboriously paint the words on in the dead of night when, for about a thousand dollars, the same effect could be accomplished through a billboard. The doctors had therefore come to the correct conclusion: the perpetrator of this crime was mentally unstable.

Unfortunately for Frankly, he fit this bill perfectly, so he was promptly sentenced to life in prison.

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Now, fifty years later, in a stunning turn of fate, the author-who-must-not-be-named was sitting at a huge walnut table answering fan mail. It wasn't fair! After all, it hadn't been any of _them_ who had to deal with the pressure of writing seven spectacular novels, a task made doubly difficult by the fact that, no matter what she published, it would be hailed as the Greatest Story Ever to Touch Paper. Yes, she thought, she had had to do more than any of _them_ would ever deal with. And now here they were, making her task even harder by writing pointless messages.

After all, she already _knew_ that she was a wonderful author, already _knew_ that everybody loved her, and already _knew_ that she had millions of potential pen pals. She understood that after the first ten letters she received. And yet, over seven years later, thousands of people still insisted on sending her detailed commentaries on how much they loved Harry Potter, how they read her books to Spot and Rover, how they made pointless rhyming couplets just for her. Did they think that she really _cared_ about their dogs?

But this was just the start. What she _really _hated was the fan mail that tried to offer advice, saying 'Since I know that you have no clue what should happen next, I think that...' Sure, she _didn't_ know what should happen next, but that was no reason for random strangers to rub it in.

Still, the very worse were those aggravating letters that pleaded "Please write faster! I can't wait for your next book!"

Had it ever, even once, occurred to them that she just _might_ write faster if she wasn't besieged daily with countless cards that spoke of how great she was?

Then, technology came along. Instead of making things easier, the rise of the Internet and email had only made replying to fan mail more difficult. Now, she was forced to slog through countless messages in her inbox that read, "U rULe aNd i REalLy lyK uR bOOkS aND i CAnt w8 4 tHE nEXt OnE 2 COme OuT!!!!" Add to that all of the idiotic chain emails that people insisted on sending her, and it was a full time job just keeping up with her fans. No wonder she had less time to write these days.

Thousands of miles away, while the author-who-must-not-be-named was struggling through her fan mail, a boy named Ronald Weasley awoke.

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Author's Note:

Begging for reviews is for masochists. So... make my day.


	2. Prelude 2: Spinners End

Author's Note:

This is the second of three preludes that do not particularily add to the plot. Humor for humor's sake, y'know.

Prelude 2: Spinners End

With a loud thump, Ron fell off of his small bed onto his head. Clutching his skull and screaming in agony, he tried to remember the dream he had been having.

It was a strange dream, but Ron recalled that there had been spiders in it. And the spiders had been talking to someone...yes, that was it. The spiders had been talking to someone about killing somebody. They had been plotting to kill him, and were going to kill his father also! Rage like he had never known before overtook Ron as he leapt off his cot, hit his head on the ceiling, and staggered out the door.

Sprinting to the garden, he tripped over his feet and fell flat on his face again. For the third time in less than ten minutes, his head felt like it was splitting open. Slightly disoriented, he vaguely wondered if this was how Harry felt all the time. It would certainly explain some things.

Mentally reminding himself of his quest, he jumped back up and grabbed Fred's broomstick. Seething, he took off for the Forbidden Forest. Aragog and his spidey buddies would pay. The journey stoked Ron's anger, and he vowed that none would survive after he dealt with them.

"Beware, spiders!" he said aloud, "Spiderman Ronny is coming!"

Nothing could stop him now.

A few hours later, Ron dismounted on the outskirts of a shadowy forest. Gathering his anger, he set off determinedly into the trees. Soon, he came upon the realm of the spiders.

"What do you want, small human?" hissed the creepy things in unison.

"You were going to kill my father! I'll kill you!" yelled Ron heroically.

"No...search your feelings. I _am_ your father," intoned Aragog wisely.

"No... **NO! **That's...that's...that's impossible!"

"Why is it impossible, son?"

"Because you're a _spider_! And _I _happen to be a human! It's genetically absurd!"

Sighing, Aragog, defeated, replied, "Well, it worked once before. I suppose it was worth a try."

Throughly confused, but unwilling to show it, Ron bellowed again, "I am going to _kill_ you!"

If he had eyebrows, Aragog would have raised them.

Infuriated by the spider's seeming indifference, Ron leapt into action, roaring. Grabbing a stick in each had, he set about the ambitious task of slaughtering the spiders.

Having been informed that this would happen weeks before by the centaurs, the spiders were not shocked by his rash actions. They had been told that it was written in the sky that they should sit around and do nothing, for, eventually, help would come and they would be hailed as universal heroes.

An hour later, Ron stood in the middle of the clearing with his hand held up in a noble position, surrounded by thousands of slashed-up, eviscerated, and extremely dead spiders. Proudly strutting back to where he had left the broom, he marveled at his talent and bravery. He was indeed a powerful force to be reckoned with.

Having watched the proceedings in silence from the sidelines, the centaurs quietly applauded their ingenuity. After all, they had just eliminated a predator with next to no effort. There was, however, one major flaw that had appeared in their great plan. Bane tossed his head disdainfully, and stated what all of the herd were thinking.

"So..._uncivilized_."

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Grinning broadly with spider guts down his front, Ron dismounted in front of the Burrow. Met by the rest of his family, he proudly spun the tale of how he had destroyed Aragog and Friends.

Concluding triumphantly, he proclaimed, "They're animals! And I slaughtered them like animals! I HATE THEM!"

Molly wiped tears from her eyes as she wondered at her youngest son's heroics.

"Oh, Ronny...I'm so _proud_ of you!"

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Author's Note: Reviews make the world go 'round. Sometimes.


	3. Prelude 3: The Prophecy Fulfilled

Author's Note: This is, possibly, the most random chapter yet. But what did you expect? Hang in there, this is the last prelude.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me. If you ever thought that it did... I fear for you.

Prelude 3: The Prophecy Fulfilled

In a galaxy far, far away, there lived three great friends, two of which were brothers. Nobody could imagine that Neither, Either, and Other would argue.

Nobody was the only one who thought this, however, as he turned out to be right. One fine morning, the group reached a Parting of the Ways.

They had started a joint prison for evildoers in their community, and had developed the tradition of sorting the inmates into one of three houses. An argument soon rose up between Neither and Either over whom to admit. Either only wanted to allow murderers, but Neither was convinced that felons were just as worthy.

Other sided with his older brother Neither, and soon a fight erupted between Other and Either. The two, who had once been best friends, were now engaged in a duel to the death. Grabbing a gun, Other shot Either, who promptly died.

Neither was not very grateful toward his younger brother. However, it was unknown to him that his life rested heavily on the fate of his sibling. In accordance to prophecy, Neither could only live while his brother, Other, also was alive. Had Other died in the duel, Neither would have joined him quickly. From that day onward, Other insisted that everybody else must call him _the_ Other, as a mark of respect.

Unknown to all parties involved was that their actions had just fulfilled a part of a prophecy that had been made years before by one Sybil Trelawney in another galaxy. This prophecy had been misinterpreted, as great prophecies have a tendency to be.

A man with a beard too long for his own good had been led to believe that the hope of his world rested on the shoulders of a bratty kid, an idea that was, of course, ludicrous. In fact, the most important part of the prophecy did not even apply to the Milky Way galaxy, which just went to show that the wizarding world had developed an overblown sense of their own importance.

The prophecy had been, in fact, startlingly clear, foretelling that:

"_...AND EITHER MUST DIE AT THE HAND OF THE OTHER FOR NEITHER CAN LIVE WHILE THE OTHER SURVIVES..." _

All of which, of course, proved correct.

Unfortunately for one Albus Dumbledore, the happenings in this far away galaxy had little, if anything, to do with his own immediate problems. He might, however, been comforted to hear that it _did_ come true after all. And, if Dumbledore wasn't pleased to know the eventual outcome of the prophecy, millions of Potter fans would sleep more soundly in their beds, knowing that the prophecy had not become just the next in a long line of forgotten events.

Back on dear old Earth, happenings were happening.


	4. Difficulties with the Old Lion

Author's Note: Celebrate! The plot sort of begins.

... what do you mean, you can't tell the difference?

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, the Internet, Google, Middle Earth, London... I think that pretty much covers it. It'd be nice to own Google, though, don't you think?

Chapter Four: The Difficulties with the Old Lion

The man looked rather like an old lion. There were streaks of grey in his mane of tawny hair and his bushy eyebrows; he had keen yellowish eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a certain rangy, loping grace even though he walked with a slight limp. He seemed unaware that everything from his dyed hair to his color contacts to his Harry Potter Imitation Glasses to his stubbed toe was unwelcome on this street.

He had certainly come a long way from Middle Earth, where he made his humble home. Now, as he walked up the path to Number Four, Privet Drive, he wondered where those bloody hobbits had gotten to.

Admittedly, he had never been inside Mordor before, but he had imagined it to be slightly different than what he was currently seeing. He had never quite associated Sauron with a peculiar love of begonia patches, nor had he anticipated the For Sale sign on the adjoining lot. But, as he constantly had to remind himself, you learned new things every day.

How strange. Was it customary for orcs, goblins, and trolls to ring the doorbell before entering? He supposed that it was only good manners. Shrugging, he complied. After a few moments, he was greeted by a horsey-looking woman named after one of her flowers.

Shuddering, Petunia opened the door with, "You're not..._him_ are you??"

"Not who?"

"You-Know-Who!!"

"I don't know who. "

"_Him_."

"..."

"Are you going to kill us?"

"I just want directions to the Crack of Doom."

"You mean the San Andreas Fault? That's in America."

"No, no. I mean Mordor." Aragorn started wildly gesturing with his hands as he drew a verbal picture.

"Big! Dark! Gloomy! Dunno why I'm headed there, actually, come to think of it..."

Petunia regarded the stranger on her doorstep with something resembling pity. Pity for the flower that had been squashed by Aragorn's hand motions. After a few moments, she was able to come up with a civil reply.

"I've never heard of Mordor. But I suppose you could go on Google Maps and search for it."

And so it was that Aragorn was introduced to the Internet.

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Seven hours later, Aragorn was still staring avidly at the monitor, fascinated by the knowledge he was unearthing. Delighted, he clicked link after link, making exclamations of joy as he went.

Then, he discovered the most important site online. Falling off his chair in awe, he murmured, "I have a fanlisting."

Soon, Dudley became angry at the stranger who was hogging his computer.

"Give it back!"

"Never! I have found this incredible Lord of the Rings role-playing game!"

"I want my computer back!"

"Stupid, nasty hobbit, shut up!"

"What's a hobbit?"

"_Usquener!_ _Kela_ _Dina!_"

"What's that mean?"

"Smelly one! Go away and shut up! In Elvish because of my multilingual skills."

"What's Elvish?"

"Shut up."

"I don't want to shut up."

"YOU WILL LISTEN TO THE KING OF GONDOR!"

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Downstairs, another knock came on the door. Fearfully, Petunia opened it to reveal Albus Dumbledore.

"You will pay for your lack of vision," stated Dumbledore ominously.

"Noooooooooooooooooooooo. Er, why?"

"You almost forgot my last. This calls for...salt."

"Noooooooooooooooooooooo. Please, not - not - not - not _salt_!!"

"You should have realized that last anagramed was salt. Be overcome by my cleverness. But now . . . you will pay."

With a dramatic flourish, Dumbledore drew out a salt shaker from his cloak. Tension grew as he slowly opened the top of the shaker and drew out a spoonful of salt, preparing to punish Petunia.

Suddenly, Dumbledore's cellphone rang. He jumped as Hedwig's Theme blared through the house. Upstairs, something dawned on Aragorn.

"Hang on a moment...I know that ringtone!"

Abandoning the computer, he dashed downstairs, hope rising in his chest. Seeing the white-bearded man standing in the doorway, his heart leapt with joy. He fell to the floor, crying in delight.

"Gandalf! It is you! We thought...Balrog...Moria...perished terribly! Oh, you're _alive_! What a wonderful day this is turning out to be!"

Quickly analyzing the situation, Dumbledore realized that it was far too complex to explain. Opting for the simple plan, he chose what was easy, then fervently hoped that it also happened to be right.

"It's nice to see you too, Aragorn, but I'm afraid that your duty lies elsewhere. Remember Frodo and Sam?"

"Oh...them..." Aragorn deflated slightly. Instantly, however, he perked up again.

"It's okay, Gandalf, they'll be fine. I found fanlistings for them too. They have fans worldwide. Besides, Frodo's a bit of a jerk, you know?"

The King of Gondor paused, pondering his deep insights. Suddenly, he was hit by an intense longing to go back online. Quickly, he made his excuses.

"Oh! I'll bet you have a fanlisting too! Give me a second, I'll go check."

Aragorn started to dash upstairs to his much-missed computer, but was stopped by Dumbledore.

"No, Aragorn, you have to go back to Middle Earth. Now, close your eyes. On the count of three, I'm going to clap my hands and _poof!_ You'll be back where you belong. Ready?"

"But...but...your fanlisting!"

"This is more important."

Aragorn shook his head fervantly, appalled that Gandalf could say such a thing. Stubbornly, he stated, "_Nothing_ is more important than fanlistings!"

Dumbledore sighed and realized that this was going to be harder than he had originally thought.

"Alright, I'm going to have to wipe your mind also."

Aragorn was momentarily distracted from his sulking.

"... you know how to wipe minds?"

"Uh, yeah. Picked it up from old Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan.Good ol' Jedi Masters."

Quickly reviving his passion for his obsession, Aragorn rallied.

"But then I won't remember how to use the Internet! I'll forget all my passwords!" As bleak realization hit him, Aragorn started sobbing, "Worst of all, I won't be able to join any more fanlistings!"

"It is your destiny to go back to Middle Earth, Aragorn."

"But I can't! I need to Shoot the Frog and win a free iPod! Maybe iPods have fanlistings!" Glimpsing a faint spark of hope, Aragorn paused for dramatic effect before continuing, "I'll bet they do! In fact, I'd better go check! Don't you think?"

Dumbledore sighed, then said, "No more count of three. I'm going to clap my hands and you're going to disappear right now."

"Noooooooooooo----"

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Sighing once more, Dumbledore looked down at his cell phone, muttering, "Not again...I missed another call..."

Shrugging exasperatedly, he too disappeared with a quiet pop to attend to his other duties.

After witnessing this odd display, Petunia went back to the kitchen, shaking with relief from having avoided punishment. She had found out, many years before, to ignore strange happenings on her doorstep.

Leaning against the counter for support, she recalled how she had learned the hard way how Dumbledore considered it more humane to torture somebody by putting salt on them. This made said person writhe in agony like a snail; much more effective than the simple Crucio. The man was getting more like Voldemort by the day.

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Author's Note:

We all know that in the Harry Potter Universe, anagrams are used to cleverly depart encrypted clues. So, if you take 'last' and anagram it, you easily get 'salt'.

So, in the book, Dumbledore was clearly talking/writing in riddles to confuse Harry when he wrote "Remember my last." In reality, this was a grave threat, which is why it affected Petunia so strongly. At least, that's how this flow of 'logic' goes.


	5. The Visit From Someone

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do not own The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. I (hopefully) do not own stupidity. The End.

Author's Note:

For your 10 seconds of fame as a reviewer:

athleticsrulz: Actually, I'm not completely sure either. Basically, it's how the book could have been based off of the information that JKR gave us before it was released.

maraudin-around: Thanks, I deleted the real person references. Eventually there might be a plot, but it will probably stay random. See the above response for how it's _slightly_ related to HBP... But yes, you're probably right.

Okay, everybody, this is a AU parody for fun.

// edit: I changed the title to reflect your very good point.

Octavia Eve1: Exactly! Especially if it's a humor fic. Glad you liked it.

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Chapter Five: The Visit from Someone

Harry woke up. Actually, he was thinking about sleeping for five more minutes so that his fan club could ramble on about his appearance, tragic history, and incredible, undeniable _bravery_, but he figured that we must already know about all that. For once, the guy was right.

One, of course, might be wondering where Harry had been when Dumbledore knocked so fatefully on the door. Needless to say, he had been engaged in more important matters. He had, in fact, been over at Mark Evans' house, trying and failing abysmally to recruit for Hogwarts.

Sitting up abrubtly, he contemplated the dream he had been having. It had been inspired by the movie he had watched while over at the Evans', looking over family history to see if the two might be related. After all, if they were, Mark was a potential wizard for Harry to corrupt.

Fortunately, it was not to be. Mark had given up explaining patiently to Harry that, even though his last name was indeed the same as Lily's, they were not long-lost cousins. Harry was devastated. Seeing the tears run down the Boy-Who-Needs-A-Life's face caused Mark to take pity on him. But, in a momentary laspe of good judgment, he decided to attempt to lift Harry's spirits by showing him a movie entitled "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz."

It had taken Harry awhile to realized that the Wonderful Wizard was not, actually, himself. But, with his short attention span, he quickly glossed over the fact that the world did not revolve around him and stopped bawling. However, he did have notable difficulties accepting other parts of the story.

"Where's Kansas?"

"United States."

"What's a state?"

"Defined, imaginary boundary that contains a politically organized government. Essential component of the United States."

"What?"

Mark sighed.

"Did you understand a word of that?"

"Yeah, actually," said Harry earnestly. "_That_, _a_, _of_, _the_!"

Proud of his achievement, Harry looked around, expecting thunderous applause.

It was at this point that Mark Evans gave up understanding the kid next door.

Harry watched in blessed silence for a few minutes, then exclaimed,

"WHY IS THE EMERALD CITY GREEN??"

"Because it's the _Emerald_ City?"

"But that's Slytherin colors!" Harry petulantly whined, doing an excellent impression of a Teletubby stuck in the mud .

Mark wisely chose to ignore this, and was rewarded by twenty seconds of peace and quiet. Milliseconds, actually, but he'd take what he could.

Then, much to the dismay of his ears, the Boy-Who-Just-Can't-Shut-Up exploded with another outburst.

"WHY IS THE LION COWARDLY?? LIONS ARE NOT COWARDLY!! LIONS ARE BRAVE! LIKE _ME_!"

"The lion is cowardly because he is the Cowardly Lion. And would you please stop shouting?"

Harry did his Teletubby In The Mud impersonization again.

"But Gryffindors are _brave_! The Sorting Hat said so."

As they got farther into the movie, Mark started sorely regretting ever suggesting this. Harry seemed to be determined to drive in his reputation as a mad juvenille delinquent.

"THAT'S NOT TRUE!"

"... _what_?"

"Witches don't melt! THAT'S NOT TRUE!"

Trying to be diplomatic, Mark inquired, "How would you know?"

Harry tossed his head arrogantly. The effect of which was taken away from since he hit his face on the marble counter in the process. Nursing his injured skull, he spat out, "Ha! Wouldn't _you_ like to know _that_!"

Mark sighed, contemplating the mysteries of the universe. Such as how the boy in front of him had managed to lose even more brain cells. Harry, meanwhile, seemed dedicated to reinforcing his idiotic image.

"That dog's name is Toto, right?"

"Yes. Wasn't this at the beginning of the movie?"

"What kind of stupid name is Toto?"

"I wouldn't know. What do you think?"

Ignoring the fact that, in reality, he didn't think, Harry sullenly stated, "Sirius was cooler," and left it at that.

Harry's enthusiasm promptly picked up when he saw the Fighting Trees.

"Hey, that's like the Whomping Willow! Except a whole bunch of them instead of only one..."

"Right."

"Look! A spider! Did I ever tell you about that time when Ron and I went into the forest and..."

"Right."

"I'll bet they get rescued by a flying car that can't fly anymore," Harry proudly concluded. "That's what happened to _us_."

"Right."

Silence. Mark looked up hopefully, only to be crushed again by the sound of another pointless question.

"The Wicked Witch of the West rules over Winky Country, right?"

"Winkie Country, yes."

Harry was awestruck.

"That little house elf rules a country! No _wonder_ she was able to conjure the Dark Mark!" Acting as though he was imparting a great secret, Harry continued in his characteristic shout.

"Her secret identity is the Wicked Witch of the West! It _makes sense_ now!"

Mark Evans was delighted when the movie ended, and the crazy boy left, especially after Harry's closing remark.

"Y'know... y_ou_ look sort of like a Munchkin! Maybe you're related to one!"

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Rubbing his eyes, Harry came back to real time and thought deeply about his dream. He had set off on the Yellow Brick Road, he remembered that much. He had been the Scarecrow. Yes, that was right; he had been looking for a brain. As a matter of fact, he didn't remember ever finding a brain. Really, it was such a shame that the Ministry of Magic had put such strict security on the Department of Mysteries. Harry had been considering going there to steal one of the brains he had seen in that tank.

Harry shrugged. Evidently, the dream was foretelling something drastic, but he couldn't imagine himself writing to Dumbledore saying,

'Sorry to bother you sir, but I had a dream that I was looking for a brain. Do you know what that means? Sorry to bother you. I just wanted to know why, even in my sleep, I'm brainless. Sincerely, Harry Potter."

The words sounded dumb even in his shallow head.

What he really wanted, and he almost felt ashamed admitting it to himself, was something like an _magic 8-Ball_. Something he could talk to without feeling stupid, something that could give him answers to his questions regarding life, something that _understood_ what it was like to be him. He resolved to put this on his birthday list, which happened, conveniently, to be the next day. Happy now that he had thought of a solution to his problems, he went downstairs to eat. After all, breakfast was important.

His meal was rudely interrupted, however, when the doorbell rang. Aunt Petunia's screeches were audible throughout the house.

"NO. MORE. STUPID. DOORBELLS!"

Once again, it was Dumbledore. Looking rather sheepish, he hastily explained to Harry that 'circumstances' had come up on his last visit before the two were able to meet, and that he had returned as fast as possible. Harry was led to believe that Dumbledore had rushed away to do some heroic and noble deed, which was painfully incorrect. Dumbledore had, in reality, realized that his robes were ready to pick up from Madam Malkin's. Yet, to paraphrase the wise mouth of the old man himself, "As we grow older, our mistakes grow correspondingly huger."

This time, however, he was determined to complete his mission. Sitting himself down at the Dursley's kitchen table, he looked wisely down at Harry. He realized that, since Harry was growing, he would soon be looking wisely up at Harry. Which would slightly diminish the effect. Putting his considerable mind to work, Dumbledore decided to make good use of his remaining time of looking wisely down.

Mentally returning to the present, he found Harry looking at him puzzlingly. Actually, the boy was wondering why Dumbledore had had to come during breakfast, but the headmaster of Hogwarts need not know that his hopes rested on the shoulders of a boy with the mental state of a cockroach. A dead cockroach.

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Once they were comfortably situated in the living room, the conversation began.

"Why are you here?" Harry demanded, trying to sound polite.

Dumbledore sighed, albeit quietly. The boy had never been one for subtlety.

"You remember how I told you last June that I was going to tell you everything?"

"Yeah."

"Well, hate to break it to you, but I lied."

"You _what_??"

Dumbledore sighed again. He was really getting too old for this.

"I lied."

"You, you, you, you - " Harry babbled incoherently.

"I lied, yes. But I had my reasons, I assure you. You don't see the flaw in my great plan yet?"

"What great plan?"

"That's the flaw."

Harry stared, devoid of any understanding. Dumbledore went on, choosing to overlook Harry's confusion.

"It was evident from the beginning...but I didn't know how to tell you. Should I have broken it to you after your first year? No, the evidence wasn't strong enough back then. After the Chamber of Secrets, I could have told you, but I opted to wait a few more years. Yes, I thought. He is not old enough yet. Your head had grown so swollen by all the praise you had received, I didn't want to be the reason why it blew up."

"For I was about to heap the greatest compliment of all upon you. So I waited. Your third year passed, and Sirius appeared. I still didn't tell you. After that rather nasty incident with the Goblet of Fire and the Triwizard Tournament, I realized that the moment was drawing near. But still I held off. The proof was growing to be insurmountable, but I was scared at your reaction...and ashamed."

"Finally, this past year. The evidence was everywhere; I still didn't share. But now... now..."

Harry jumped when Dudley slammed the refrigerator door. He had sunk into a half-stupor because of Dumbledore's speech, which was saying something considering his normal state of mind. He had, however, comprehended enough to make a relatively intelligent statement.

"You already told me about the prophecy, sir. Remember?"

"The prophecy? Oh, no, my dear boy. This is far more important than the prophecy... far more important."

"Hurry up then. I don't need a summary of my life. You're being overdramatic."

"Overdramatic? How... ironic. But very well, Harry. I shall get to the point." Dumbledore paused, preparing to drop the bomb that would change the future of wizardkind.

"You're left-handed, Harry."

At first, Harry didn't believe it.

"Left-handed? Me?"

Why did the boy feel the urge to repeat every word he heard? Sighing, Dumbledore clarified.

"Yes. You are left-handed."

"But...that day...in Ollivander's! I remember saying quite clearly, 'Er - well, I'm right handed.'"

Dumbledore tried to speak in a gentle voice, which was becoming increasingly difficult.

"You were wrong, I'm afraid. Luckily, Ollivander immediately owled me after you left the shop, equipped with what was really a left-handed wand. Didn't you ever wondered why you were pathetic in classes, but shone brilliantly in the face of real danger? You've never had anything _strange_ or _mysterious_ happen, when you used your left hand instead of your right hand?"

A grin slowly came over Harry's face. Now that he thought about it, hadn't he used his left hand in everything dangerous that happened at the end of each school year? Yes, it was true...

Seeing that Harry had seen the truth, Dumbledore spoke.

"Yes, you see? I'm correct. Not left-handed...why, in a few days, you won't know yourself!"

With a self-satisfied smile on his face, Dumbledore gave careful instructions to Harry.

"Now, tomorrow morning, I want you to go to London and meet somebody in the Leaky Cauldron."

"How will I know who to meet?"

"Don't worry, the Force will guide us."

"The what?"

"Never mind. Just go to the Leaky Cauldron. The person you're going to meet will say a password, then you will know."

"Well, then, what's the password?"

"I'm not going to tell you. Don't worry, _you will know_."

"Fine. Why am I going to London anyway?"

"You shall see..." muttered Dumbledore, trying to sound mysterious and forboding. "You shall see..."

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Author's Note:

You will find, if you look on the covers of most of the American versions of the books, that Harry holds his wand in his left hand. He's even left-handed in some of the chapter pictures...

In addition, occasional parts of the movies (notably the Leaving the Dursleys scene in Prisoner of Azakban) show him left handed. Now, there are far more with a righty Harry, but we'll ignore those. xD.

Review.


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